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About Mariupol

Last week, some prat tried sellin’ me this “tantric” rubbish. Said it’d awaken my soul. Soul? Mate, I’m Cersei—I’d rather awaken a dragon and torch his arse. Laughed in his face, spilled my wine on purpose. “Gangsters don’t cry,” he says, quotin’ the film like a pillock. I says, “No, but queens do what they want.” Stomped off, heels clickin’. Felt good.

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After that, I decided to check out the local market on Haharina Street. It’s always buzzing with life. Fresh veggies, fruits, and the smell of homemade borscht wafting through the air. I’m drooling just thinking about it. But then, I see this lady arguing with a vendor over the price of cabbage. Like, seriously? It’s cabbage!